


what is torn opens for the light

by tomatocages (kittu9)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Canon Bisexual Character, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Psychological Trauma, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittu9/pseuds/tomatocages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nyssa didn't have to teach Sara how to hide a body. Sara learned how to do that all on her own.</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>Sara meets Nyssa al Ghul and falls in love. It feels a lot like honesty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what is torn opens for the light

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Shock and Ave](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/247444), by Sheryl Luna.

Nyssa never taught Sara how to hide a body. Sara knew how to do that from the start—it was easy. After a while, the guilt wore off and was replaced with a simple, deep exhaustion. It always reminded her of opening her eyes after that gun had gone off, and having to listen to Ollie scream over Shado.

Oliver—hadn’t saved Sara, when Shado died. It didn’t hurt her now, but she’d rather lie about what had happened than remind Oliver that when there had been no choice to make, he still hadn’t chosen her. It was the story of her life, really: wanting something, and hurting someone else just to have it.

The truth did that—it soothed or it burned, depending on the application. That knowledge saved Sara’s skin, even when it was also what has put Sara in hot water. It’s a risk she would always take: Sara lied all the time, mostly to people who mattered, and never to herself.

By the time Sara met Nyssa, she couldn’t even remember being clean. It had to have happened at one point—it rained often enough, and when it rained, Sara was usually out in it—but it had been in another country. Her hair was matted close to her scalp (she was almost certain she had lice, but tried not to think about it) and Sara was grateful for how tired everything made her: she didn’t have the energy to flinch away from how unwashed her clothes were. Despite this, Nyssa had reached out and helped Sara up from the ground, and then she’d smiled.

“You’ve got potential,” Nyssa said, because Sara had just broken a man’s neck; he’d met her on the road earlier that day, and they’d walked together for a few kilometers until Sara had asked him for food and he’d asked for something she refused to give in return.

“I get by,” Sara said, because she could do what she had to do. She was mortified by the way she smelled, by how horrible her fingernails looked against the gleaming leather of Nyssa’s jacket. Nyssa’s hair was tied back under a scarf that was covered with tree sap; one curl had slipped free, settling past Nyssa’s ear and alongside her cheek. Sara looked away, back at her nails, and imagined herself with a manicure. Pink, probably: but anything would have sufficed.

“You can do better,” Nyssa said, and Sara tore her gaze away from her hands and looked up at Nyssa’s face. The past several months were a numb blur of dirt and death and deprivation. Sara had had offers, on the road, from men and women who’d looked at her and thought they could own her in some way; Nyssa was different. She was tall and strong and her mouth was painted red, more precisely than Sara had ever managed back when she’d owned lipstick and liner and a brush. 

“If you’re offering,” Sara said. Her mouth was dry; she ran her tongue over her teeth and grimaced at the feel of them. Nyssa smirked and let her go, kicking a branch over the dead body at their feet before she stepped back onto the road. Even then, when Nyssa turned and stood with her back to Sara, not even waiting to see if Sara would follow—Sara had still known she was being chosen.

The League of Assassins wasn’t as bad as it sounded. For the most part, it was just honest—trust Sara to fall in with a company that would do just about anything, and tell the truth while doing it. Sara had killed people before—it wasn’t particularly easy, but it got easier as time went by. Eventually, Sara chose name of her own. She learned how to run on rooftops and how to distill snake venom and how to predict what move a man would make just before he made it. She learned how to follow or ignore orders depending on who gave them, and she learned how to trust herself. That was the crucial skill, and it came in handy when the only other important thing in Sara’s book showed up: one night after they’d finished their watch, Nyssa had leaned down and kissed Sara on the mouth.

It was strange; Sara wasn’t sure if anyone had ever kissed her just because she was _Sara_. For Oliver, it had been because she wasn’t Laurel; for everyone else, Sara had the sneaking suspicion it’d had more to do with having boobs and long blonde hair. This was another sensation entirely.

After she finished kissing her, Nyssa asked, “is this all right?” Her mouth was so close that it nearly brushed against Sara’s face with each syllable. She sounded careful and confident, and achingly soft: her words were nearly as warm as her mouth had been the moment before.

“You’re perfect,” Sara said.

“Just watch me,” Nyssa said. She kissed Sara’s mouth again, and then kissed her once more on the brow, as though she couldn’t help herself. It was a tell; Sara realized all at once that Nyssa frequently didn’t know how to help herself where Sara was concerned. The knowledge ran hot within her, resonating in her chest and gut and legs. Sara liked it; she hadn’t felt giddy like this in a long time.

“If you’re offering,” Sara said. She reached out and took one of Nyssa’s hands in her own, entwining their fingers for a moment before letting go. There was no point in making it harder to reach a knife if she needed one, but—Sara wanted to touch her again.

Nyssa never hid things. She stood in front of Sara, just as tall and beautiful and strong as she had been the day they’d met, and looked at her. Sara counted the seconds: twenty. It was an eternity, the time slowing down and dragging out until it nearly matched her heartbeat.

Nothing changed while she counted, and Sara knew nothing would change during the number of seconds she would count off later. All that mattered was the way Nyssa looked at Sara, as if Sara were something precious and raw and wise. It was a look that Sara wanted to put her hands and mouth on, a look that she wanted to cover her entire body.

She followed Nyssa back to camp. Even so, Sara finally felt like she was leading.  

 


End file.
